University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Estate  of 
Raymond  Wallace 


THE  HOUSE  OF  USNA 


The    House   of  Usna 

A  DRAMA  BY 
FIONA  MACLEOD 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS  B  MOSHER 

MDCCCCIII 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS    B.    MOSHER 

1903 


TO 
MONA 


FOREWORD 


FOREWORD 

N  this  short  drama  I  have 
attempted  to  give  voice  to 
two  elemental  emotions, 
the  emotion  of  the  inevit- 
ableness  of  destiny  and  the  emotion  of 
tragical  loveliness.  One  does  not  need 
to  know  the  story  of  Concobar  and 
Deirdre,  of  Deirdre  and  the  Sons  of 
Usna,  in  order  to  know  the  mystery 
and  the  silent  arrivals  of  destiny,  or  to 
know  the  emotion  of  sorrow  at  the 
passage  of  beauty :  as  one  does  not 
need  to  know  the  story  of  Iphtgeneta 
in  Aulis  in  order  to  know  the  emotion 
of  indignation  at  kingly  guile  or  the 
emotion  of  pity  for  the  betrayed :  as 
one  does  not  need  to  know  the  story 
of  the  Crowned  Hiffolytos  in  order  to 
know  the  emotion  of  tragical  suspense, 
as  when  Phaedra's  love  for  the  son  of 
her  husband  is  like  a  leaf  on  the  wind ; 
or  in  order  to  know  the  emotion  of 

ix 


FOREWORD 

bewildered  futility,  as  when  Theseus 
curses  and  banishes  his  innocent  son 
and  persuades  to  him  the  doom  of 
Poseidon.  For  these  emotions  are 
not  the  properties  of  drama,  which  is 
but  a  fowler  snaring  them  in  a  net. 
These  deep  elementals  are  the  obscure 
Chorus  which  plays  upon  the  silent 
flutes,  upon  the  nerves  wherein  the 
soul  sits  enmeshed.  They  have  their 
own  savage  or  divine  energy,  and  the 
man  of  the  woods  and  the  dark  girl  of 
the  canebrakes  know  them  with  the 
same  bowed  suspense  or  uplifted 
lamentation  or  joy  as  do  the  men  and 
women  who  have  great  names  and  to 
whom  the  lords  of  the  imagination 
have  given  immortality. 

Many  kings  have  desired,  and  the 
gods  forbidden.  Concobar  has  but 
lain  down  where  Caesars  have  fallen 
and  Pharaohs  closed  imperial  eyes, 
and  many  satraps  and  many  tyrants 
have  bent  before  the  wind.     All  old 


FOREWORD 

men  who  in  strength  and  passion  rise 
up  against  the  bitterness  of  destiny 
are  the  kindred  of  Lear :  those  who 
have  kept  love  as  the  crown  of  years, 
and  seen  it  go  from  them  like  a  wreath 
of  sand,  are  of  the  kin  of  Concobar. 
There  is  not  one  Lear  only,  or  one 
Concobar,  in  the  vast  stage  of  life : 
but  a  multitude  of  men  who  ask,  in 
the  dark  hour  of  the  Winged  Destiny, 
Am  I  in  truth  a  king?  or  who, 
incredulous,  whisper  Deirdre  is  dead, 
DeirdrS  the  beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead. 
The  tradition  of  accursed  families 
is  not  the  fantasy  of  one  dramatist  or 
of  one  country  or  of  one  time.  The 
Oresteia  of  Aischylos  is  no  more  than 
a  tragic  fugue  wherein  one  hears  the 
cries  of  uncountable  threnodies.  The 
doom  of  the  clan  of  Usna  is  not  less 
veiled  in  terror  and  perpetuated  in 
fatality  than  the  doom  of  the  Atredai : 
and  even  '  The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher '  is  but  a  single  note  of  the  same 

xi 


FOREWORD 

ancient  mystery  over  which  Sophocles 
brooded  in  the  lamentations  which 
eddy  like  mournful  winds  around  the 
House  of  Labdacus. 

Whether  the  poet  turn  to  the  tragedy 
of  the  Theban  dynasty  wherein  Laios 
and  lokaste  and  Gidipus  move  like 
children  of  fire  in  a  wood  doomed  to 
flame;  or  to  the  tragedy  of  the 
Achaian  dynasty,  wherein  Pelops  and 
Atreus,  Agamemnon  and  Menelaos, 
Helen  and  Iphigeneia,  Klytaimestra 
prophesying  and  the  prophet  Kalchas, 
are  like  shadowy  figures,  crowned 
with  terror  and  beauty,  on  the  verge 
of  a  dark  sea  where  the  menace  of  an 
obscure  wind  is  continually  heard 
beyond  the  enchanted  shore ;  or  to 
the  tragedy  of  Lear  weeping,  where 
all  kingship  seems  as  a  crown  left  in 
the  desert  to  become  the  spoil  of  the 
adder  or  a  pillow  for  wandering  dust ; 
or  to  the  Celtic  tragedy  of  the  House 
of  Fionn,  where  Dermid  and  Grania, 

xii 


FOREWORD 

where  Oisin  and  Malveen,  are  like  the 
winds  and  the  waters,  the  rains  and 
the  lamentations  of  the  hills ;  or  to 
that  other  and  less  familiar  gaelic 
tragedy  of  the  House  of  Usna,  where 
an  old  king  knows  madness  because 
of  garnered  love  spilt  and  wasted,  and 
where  a  lamp  of  deathless  beauty 
shines  like  a  beacon,  and  where  heroes 
die  as  leaves  fall,  and  where  a  wind 
of  prophesying  is  like  the  sound  of 
dark  birds  flying  over  dark  trees  in 
the  darkness  of  forgotten  woods :  — 
whether  one  turn  to  these,  or  to  the 
doom  of  the  House  of  Malatesta,  or  to 
the  doom  of  the  House  of  Macbeth, 
or  to  the  doom  of  the  House  of 
Ravenswood,  one  turns  in  vain  if  he 
be  blind  and  deaf  to  the  same  elemental 
forces  as  they  move  their  eternal  ichor 
through  the  blood  that  has  to-day*s 
warmth  in  it,  that  are  the  same  powers 
though  they  be  known  of  the  obscure 
and  the  silent,  and  are  committed  like 

xiii 


FOREWORD 

wandering  flame  to  the  torch  of  a 
ballad  as  well  as  to  the  starry  march 
of  the  compelling  words  of  genius  ; 
are  of  the  same  dominion,  though  that 
be  in  the  shaken  hearts  of  islesfolk 
and  mountaineers,  and  not  with  kings 
in  Mykenai,  or  by  the  thrones  of 
Tamburlaine  and  Aurungzebe,  or  with 
great  lords  and  broken  nobles  and 
thanes. 

But  the  poet,  the  dramatist,  is  not 
able  —  is  not  yet  able  —  to  express  in 
beauty  and  convey  in  symbol  the 
visible  energy  of  these  emotions  with- 
out resort  to  the  artifice  of  men  and 
women  set  in  array,  with  harmonious 
and  arbitrary  speech  given  to  them, 
and  a  background  of  illusion  made 
unreal  by  being  made  emphatic. 

If  one  were  to  express  the  passion 
of  remorse  under  the  signal  of  a  Voice 
lamenting,  or  the  passion  of  tears 
under  the  signal  of  a  Cry,  and  be 
content    to    give    no   name   to   these 

xiv 


FOREWORD 

protagonists  and  to  deny  them  the 
background  of  history  or  legend  :  and 
were  to  unite  them  in  the  sequence  of 
significant  and  essential  things  which 
is  drama  in  action,  but  in  a  sequence 
of  suggestion  and  symbol  rather  than 
of  statement  and  pageant ;  he  would 
be  told  that  he  had  mistaken  the 
method  of  music  passing  into  drama 
for  the  method  of  verbal  illusion  pass- 
ing into  drama. 

And,  while  this  is  so,  it  cannot 
be  gainsaid  that  he  must  not  seek 
to  disengage  from  the  creature  of 
his  imagination  these  old  allies,  the 
intimate  name  and  the  familiar  cir- 
cumstance. It  may  be  true  that  a 
Voice  and  a  Cry  may  suffice,  not 
as  choric  echo  or  emphasis,  but  as 
protagonists  in  a  drama  where  the 
passions  and  energies  and  unveiled 
emotions  are  unloosed,  and  elemental 
strives  with  elemental,  till  Love  and 
Terror  may  in  very  weariness  lie  down 

XV 


FOREWORD 

together,  and  Death  and  Sorrow  and 
Wrath  and  Lamentation  disclose  their 
own  august  nakedness,  beings  stand- 
ing apart  from  the  mortal  wrappings 
of  words  and  action,  of  silence  and 
sound  and  colour  and  shape,  to  which 
our  mind  compels  them.  But  that  is 
too  subtle  a  dream  for  realisation  to 
seem  possible  yet.  It  is  too  subtle 
perhaps  even  as  the  insubstantial 
phantom  of  a  dream,  save  for  those 
who,  hungering  after  the  wild  honey 
of  the  mind  and  thirsting  for  the 
remoter  springs,  foresee  a  time  when 
the  imagination  shall  lay  aside  words 
and  pigments  and  clay,  as  raiment 
needless  during  the  festivals  of  the 
spirit,  and  express  itself  in  the  thoughts 
which  inhabit  words  —  as  light  inhabits 
water  or  as  greenness  inhabits  grass ; 
and  in  the  colours  which  inhabit  pig- 
ments, as  wild-roses  and  dew-wet 
laburnum  and  white  and  purple  iris 
gathered  from  a  June   morning  and 

xvi 


FOREWORD 

hidden  in  earthenware  jars ;  and  in 
the  perpetual  and  protean  energy  of 
Form  which,  tranced  and  unique, 
dreams  in  clay  or  sleeps  in  marble  or 
ivory. 

But  so  long  as  the  imagination 
dwells  in  this  old  convention  which 
imposes  upon  us  the  use  of  events  that 
chime  to  the  bells  of  the  past,  and  the 
use  of  names  which  are  at  once  con- 
gruous and  traditional  ....  in  this 
convention  of  episode  and  phrase  in  the 
concert  of  action  and  suspense  .... 
it  will  be  well  ever  and  again  to  turn  to 
those  ancestral  themes  past  which  so 
many  generations  have  slipt  like  sea- 
going winds  over  pastures,  and  upon 
which  the  thoughts  of  many  minds 
have  fallen  in  secret  dews.  I  do  not 
say,  for  I  do  not  so  think,  that  there 
might  not  be  drama  as  moving  whether 
it  deal  with  the  event  of  to-day  and 
the  accent  of  the  hour  as  with  a  remote 
accent    recovered    and    with    remote 

xvii 


FOREWORD 

event.  Some  of  the  dramas  of  Brown- 
ing, some  of  the  finer  French  dramas, 
some  of  the  short  plays  of  Mr.  Yeats 
and  others,  are  to  the  point.  But,  to 
many  minds,  there  must  always  be  a 
supreme  attraction  in  great  themes  of 
drama  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  tales 
of  faerie  and  wonder  to  the  mind  of 
childhood.  The  mind,  however,  need 
not  be  bondager  to  formal  tradition.  I 
know  one  who  can  evoke  modern 
dramatic  scenes  by  the  mere  iterance 
of  the  great  musical  names  of  the 
imagination  .  .  .  Menelaos,  Helen, 
Klytemaistra,  Andromache,  Kassan- 
dra,  Orestes,  Blind  Oidipus,  Elektra, 
Kreusa,  and  the  like.  This  is  not 
because  these  names  are  in  themselves 
esoteric  symbols,  or  are  built  of  letters 
of  revelation  as  the  fabled  tower  of  Ys 
was  built  of  evocatory  letters  made  of 
wind  and  water,  of  browness  of  earth, 
of  greenness  of  grass,  and  of  dew, 
all  of  which  the  druids  held  in  the 

xviii 


FOREWORD 

hollows  of  the  five  vowels.  My  friend 
has  not  seen  any  representation  of  the 
Agame?nnon  or  the  Choefhoroi^  of 
Aias  or  Oidifus  at  Kolonos,  of  Elek- 
tra  or  lon^  or  indeed  of  any  Greek 
play.  But  he  knows  the  story  of 
every  name  mentioned  in  each  of  the 
dramas  of  the  three  kings  of  Greek 
Tragedy.  So,  as  he  says,  why  should 
he  go  out  to  see  a  trivial  play  of  trivial 
people  animated  by  trivial  emotions 
against  a  background  of  trivial  cir- 
cumstance, when  he  can  sit  before  his 
fire  and  see  Elektra  and  Orestes 
standing  appalled  before  the  dead 
body  of  Klytaimestra,  listening  if  the 
coming  steps  are  the  steps  of  murdered 
Aigisthos,  and  cowering  when  they 
see  the  pale  immortal  faces  of  the 
Dioskoroi :  or  see  Oidipus,  that  proud 
king,  when  he  hears  the  first  terrible 
whisper  of  destiny  from  the  lips  of  the 
prophet  Teiresias,  or  when,  blind  and 
abased,    he    lies    in    the    dust,    with 

xix 


FOREWORD 

lokaste,  wife  and  queen  and  revealed 
mother,  already  *  a  silent  fruit  on 
the  tree  of  death,'  while,  beyond,  the 
Choros  raves :  or  when,  as  in  Aias, 
(  as  our  Cuchulain  fighting  the  waves 
with  drawn  sword  and  foam  on  his 
lips,  or  Conchobar  in  the  legendary 
tale  that  on  the  day  of  the  Crucifixion 
he  ran  into  the  woods  lopping  great 
branches  from  the  trees  and  calling 
*  A  king  is  fallen  to-day,  an  innocent 
king  is  slain,  a  great  king  is  fallen  ! ') 
the  mad  prince  runs  among  a  herd 
of  cattle  and  slaughters  the  lowing 
bulls,  thinking  them  to  be  Agamem- 
non and  Menelaos  —  or,  later,  when 
he  stands  subtly  smiling  as  though 
acquiescing  to  the  fair  words  of  Tek- 
messa,  and  then  with  sidelong  eyes 
goes  furtively  to  the  solitary  place 
where  he  may  fall  upon  his  sword? 
Or,  again,  he  may  see  Klytaimestra 
entering  the  doorway,  with  Elektra  and 
Orestes  waiting  with  beating  hearts, 

XX 


FOREWORD 

not  as  either  Euripides  or  Aischylos 
has  revealed  to  us ;  or  may  see  Oidipus 
staring  with  sudden  scornful  wrath  at 
Teiresias,  not  as  either  Aischylos  or 
Sophocles  has  revealed  to  us ;  but  a 
Klytaimestra,  an  Elektra,  an  Orestes, 
an  Oidipus,  a  Teiresias,  as  revealed 
to  his  own  vision  that  is  of  to-day, 
shaped  from  the  mould  that  moulds 
the  spirit  of  to-day  and  coloured 
with  the  colour  of  to-day's  mind.  And 
here,  he  says,  is  his  delight.  *'For  I 
do  not  live  only  in  the  past,  but  in  the 
present,  in  these  dramas  of  the  mind. 
The  names  stand  for  the  elemental 
passions,  and  I  can  come  to  them 
through  my  own  gates  of  to-day  as 
well  as  through  the  ancient  portals  of 
Aischylos  or  Sophocles  or  Euripides  : 
and  for  background  I  prefer  the  flame- 
light  and  the  sound  of  the  wind  to  any 
of  the  crude  illusions  of  stagecraft." 

It  is  no  doubt  in  this  attitude  that 
Racine,  so  French  in  the  accent  of  his 

xxi 


FOREWORD 

classical  genius,  looked  at  the  old 
drama  which  was  his  inspiration  :  that 
Mr.  Swinburne  and  Mr.  Bridges,  so 
English  in  the  accent  of  their  genius, 
have  looked  at  it ;  that  Etchegaray,  in 
Spain,  looked  at  it  before  he  produced 
his  troubled  modern  Elektra  which 
is  so  remote  in  shapen  thought  and 
coloured  semblance  from  the  colour 
and  idea  of  its  prototype  ;  that  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio  looked  at  it  before  he 
became  obsessed  with  the  old  terrible 
idea  of  the  tangled  feet  of  Destiny,  so 
that  a  tuft  of  grass  might  withhold  or 
a  breath  from  stirred  dust  empoison, 
and  wrote  that  most  perturbing  of  all 
modern  dramas,  La  Citta  Morta, 

It  concurs,  then,  that  there  is  no 
inherent  reason  why  a  poet  of  to-day 
should  not  overtake  the  same  themes 
as  Aischylos  overtook  from  Phrynicus, 
and  Sophocles  from  Aischylos,  and 
Euripides  from  all  three,  and  Philocles 
and  Agathon  and  Xenocles  indiscrim- 

xxii 


FOREWORD 

inately.  The  difficulty  is  not  in  the 
remoteness  of  the  theme,  still  less  in 
the  essential  substance.  It  is  in  the 
mistaken  idea  that  the  ancient  formal 
method  is  inevitable,  and  in  the  mis- 
taken idea  that  a  theme  sustained  on 
essential  and  elemental  things  and 
therefore  independent  of  unique  cir- 
cumstance can  be  exhausted  by  the 
flashing  upon  it  of  one  great  light. 
Kassandra  and  Helen  and  Iphigeneia 
.  .  .  they  live :  they  are  not  dead. 
But,  to  approach  them,  to  come  face 
to  face  v^ith  them,  that  is  not  the 
reward  of  the  most  eager  mind,  or  of 
the  most  uplifted  desire :  it  is  the 
reward  only  of  genius  akin  in  quality 
at  least  with  that  of  those  great  ones 
of  old  who,  like  drifting  Pharos, 
flashed  across  the  dark  seas  of 
antiquity  a  dazzling  illumination  on 
this  lifted  wave  called  Helen,  on  that 
lifted  wave  called  Andromache,  on 
these  long  rolling  billows  called  Aga- 

xxiii 


FOREWORD 

memnon  or  Aias  or  Orestes.  It  is  not 
the  themes  that  have  receded  but  the 
imaginations  that  have  quailed. 

Merely  to  parody  the  Greek  trage- 
dians, by  taking  a  great  theme  and 
putting  one's  presumption  and  weak- 
ness beside  it  —  that  is  another  thing 
altogether.  It  is  difficult  after  Shelley 
and  Robert  Browning,  after  Mr. 
Swinburne  and  Mr.  Robert  Bridges, 
to  say  that  no  modern  English  poet 
has  achieved  a  play  with  a  Greek 
heart  ...  no  play  written  as  a  nine- 
teenth century  Sophocles  or  Euripides 
or  Agathon  would  have  written  it. 
Even  on  Prometheus  Unbound  and 
Atalanta  in  Calydon,  even  on  Erech- 
theus,  the  Gothic  genius  of  the  North 
has  laid  a  touch  as  delicate  as  frost, 
as  durable  as  the  finger  of  primeval 
fire  on  the  brows  of  immemorial  rock. 
Perhaps  the  plays  of  Mr.  Bridges  are 
more  truly  classical  than  any  modern 
drama  since  Racine.     But  their  flame 

xxiv 


FOREWORD 

is  flame  seen  in  a  mirror :  we  see  the 
glow,  we  are  intellectually  warmed 
by  it,  but  we  do  not  feel  it  ...  .  our 
minds  only,  not  our  hearts  that  should 
burn,  our  nerves  that  should  thrill, 
respond. 

The  reason,  I  do  not  doubt,  is 
mainly  a  psychical  rather  than  an 
intellectual  difficulty.  It  is  the  in- 
dwelling spirit  and  not  the  magnetic 
mind  that  is  wayward  and  eager  to 
evade  the  compelling  wand  of  the 
imagination.  For  the  spirit  is  not 
under  the  spell  of  tradition.  It  wishes 
to  go  its  own  way.  Tradition  says, 
if  you  would  write  of  the  slaying 
of  Klytaimestra  you  must  present  a 
recognisable  Elektra  and  a  recog- 
nisable Orestes,  and  Dioskoroi  rec- 
ognisable as  Dioskoroi  against  a 
recognisable  background :  but  to  the 
spirit  Elektra  and  Orestes  are  simply 
abstract  terms  of  the  theatre  of  the 
imagination,  the  Dioskoroi  are  august 

XXV 


FOREWORD 

powers,  winnowers  of  fate,  and  the 
old  Greek  background  is  but  a 
remembered  semblance  of  a  living 
stage  that  is  not  to-day  what  it  was 
yesterday  or  shall  be  to-morrow,  and 
yet  is  ever  in  essentials  the  same. 

There  is  not  one  of  the  Greek 
dramas  which  might  not  in  spiritual 
identity  be  achieved  to-day  by  genius 
that,  with  equality  of  power,  could 
perceive  the  intransiency  of  the  essen- 
tial and  immortal  factors  in  the  life  of 
the  imagination  and  the  mutability 
of  what  is  accidental  in  time  and 
circumstance. 

We  are,  I  believe,  turning  towards 
a  new  theatre.  The  theatre  of  Ibsen, 
and  all  it  stands  for,  is  become  out- 
worn as  a  compelling  influence.  Its 
inherent  tendency  to  demonstrate 
intellectually  from  a  series  of  incon- 
trovertible material  facts  is  not  ade- 
quate for  those  who  would  see  in  the 
drama  the  means  to  demonstrate  sym- 

xxvi 


FOREWORD 

bolically  from  a  sequence  of  intuitive 
perception.  A  subtle  French  critic, 
writing  of  the  theatre  of  Ibsen,  appre- 
ciates it  as  a  theatre  more  negative 
than  positive,  more  revolutionary  than 
foundational,  more  intellectual  than 
religious.  **A  ce  theatre  amer  et 
sec,"  he  adds,  ^'Tame  moderne  ne 
pent  etancher  toutes  ses  soifs  d'infini 
et  d'absolu.  " 

I  think  that,  there,  the  right  thing 
is  said,  as  well  as  the  significant  indi- 
cation given.  **  More  intellectual 
than  religious " :  that  is,  more  con- 
gruous with  the  method  of  the  mirror 
that  gathers  and  reveals  certain  facets 
of  the  spirit,  than  with  the  spirit  who 
as  in  a  glass  darkly  looks  into  the 
mirror.  "  More  intellectual  than  re- 
ligious "  :  that  is,  more  persuaded  by 
the  sight  that  reveals  the  visible  than 
by  the  vision  that  perceives  what 
materially  is  not  visible.  'At  this 
bitter  and  dry  theatre  of  the  intellect, 

xxvii 


FOREWORD 

the  modern  soul  cannot  quench  its 
thirst  for  the  infinite  and  absolute': 
and  that  is  the  reason,  alone  adequate, 
why  to-day  the  minds  of  men  are  turn- 
ing to  a  new  drama,  wherein  thoughts 
and  ideas  and  intuitions  shall  play  a 
more  significant  part  than  the  acted 
similitudes  of  the  lesser  emotions  that 
are  not  so  much  the  incalculable  life  of 
the  soul  as  the  conditioned  energies 
of  the  body.  The  Psychic  drama 
shall  not  be  less  nervous :  but  the 
emotional  energy  shall  be  along  the 
nerves  of  the  spirit,  which  sees  be- 
neath and  above  and  beyond,  rather 
than  merely  along  the  nerves  of  mate- 
rial life,  which  sees  only  that  which 
is  in  the  line  of  sight. 

And  as  I  have  written  elsewhere,  it 
may  well  be  that,  in  a  day  of  outworn 
conventions,  many  of  us  are  ready  to 
turn  gladly  from  the  scenic  illusions 
of  the  stage-carpenter  and  the  palpable 
illusions    of    the   playwright,    to   the 

xxviii 


FOREWORD 

ever-new  illusions  of  the  dreaming 
mind,  woven  in  a  new  intense  dramatic 
reality  against  *  imagined  tapestries  * 

....  dream-coloured  dramas  of  tke  mind 
Best  seen  against  imagined  tapestries    .... 

against  revealing  shadows  and  tragic 
glooms  and  radiances  as  real,  and  as 
near,  as  the  crude  symbols  of  painted 
boards  and  stereotyped  phrase  in  which 
we  still  have  a  receding  pleasure. 

I  think  the  profoundest  utterance  I 
know,  witnessing  to  the  fundamentally 
psychical  nature  of  the  drama,  is  a 
phrase  of  Chateaubriand  which  I  came 
upon    recently    in    Book   V.    of    his 

Memoir es *  *  to  recover  the 

desert  I  took  refuge  in  the  theatre. " 
The  whole  effort  of  a  civilisation 
become  anaemic  and  disillusioned  must 
be  to  *  recover  the  desert.'  That  is  a 
central  truth,  perceived  now  of  many 
who  are  still  the  few.  This  great 
writer  knew  that  in  the  thidtre  de  Vdme 

xxix 


FOREWORD 

lay  the  subtlest  and  most  searching 
means  for  the  imagination  to  compel 
reality  to  dreams,  to  compel  actuality 
to  vision,  to  compel  to  the  symbolic 
congregation  of  words  the  bewildered 
throng  of  wandering  and  illusive 
thoughts  and  ideas.  By  *  the  desert' 
he  meant  that  wilderness,  that  actual 
or  symbolic  solitude,  to  which  the 
creative  imagination  goes  as  the  curlew 
to  the  wastes  or  as  the  mew  to  foam 
and  wind. 

Other  writers  speak  of  *  nature ' 
and  *  solitude '  as  though  regarding 
them  as  sanctuaries  where  the  passions 
may,  like  the  wild  falcons,  cover  their 
faces  with  their  wings,  and  be  still. 
Chateaubriand  was  of  those  few  who 
look  upon  the  solitudes  of  nature  as 
enchanted  lands,  where  terror  walks 
with  beauty,  and  where  dreams  start 
affrighted  from  quiet  pools  because 
the  shadow  of  invisible  fear  falls  past 
their  shadowy  hair  and  they  see  the 

XXX 


FOREWORD 

phantom  slipping  from  depth  to  depth 
as  a  wind-eddy  from  leaf  to  leaf.  He 
was  of  those  who  looked  upon  solitude 
as,  of  old,  anchorites  looked  upon 
waste  places  where  the  vulture  had 
her  eyrie  and  the  hyena  wailed  and  in 
desolate  twilights  the  lioness  filled  the 
dark  with  the  hunger  of  her  young. 
*'  Be  upon  your  guard  against  solitude  : 
the  great  passions  are  solitary,  and  to 
transport  them  to  the  desert  is  to  restore 
them  to  their  triumph." 

But  I  have  wandered  from  the 
narrower  path  on  which  I  set  out. 
■Elsewhere,  I  hope  to  express  more 
adequately  what  here  I  have  cursorily 
outlined,  and,  also,  tentatively  to  illus- 
trate the  Psychic  Drama  as  thus 
indicated.  It  is  because  my  mind  is 
occupied  with  many  problems  of  a 
new  drama  that  I  have  thus  burdened 
a  mere  act,  remembered  as  it  were 
from  some  vast  unwritten  ancient 
drama,    with    so   lengthy    a    preface. 

xxxi 


FOREWORD 

However,  it  may  stand  as  the  state- 
ment of  a  movement  of  return  on  the 
part  of  individual  thought,  that  I 
believe  to  be  indicative  of  a  movement 
of  return  on  the  part  of  modern 
thought,  to  the  instinct  of  organic 
unity  and  ....  in  the  deep  sense  of 
the  term  .  .  .  to  a  religious  inspiration. 

F.  M. 


xxxii 


THE  HOUSE  OF  USNA 
A  DRAMA 


NOTE 

ON  CO  BAR  MAC 
NESS  A  was  King  of 
Ulster  and  Ard-Ree  or 
High-King  of  Ireland  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era. 
By  some  chroniclers  his  reign  is  said 
to  be  synchronous  with  the  mortal 
years  of  Christ, 

Concobar  had  founded  the  knight- 
ly order  of  ''The  Red  Branch''  — 
the  forerunrier^  though  on  a  more 
epical  scale,  of  the  Round  Table  of 
the  Arthurian  Chivalry  —  and  by 
his  force  of  will  and  the  power  of 
his  nation  [the  Ultonians,  the  people 
of  Uladh,  or  Ulster)  had  become 
not  only  High-King  of  Ireland,  but 
dreamed  to  make  of  its  7tations  one 
natiofZy  and  that  he  and  his  sons  and 
his  sons  sons  should  be  its  kings, 
hi    this   he    disregarded   both    the 


NOTE 

prophecies  of  the  seers  and  the  will  of 
the  gods  ;  for  he  had  long  schemed^ 
and  at  last  accomplished,  a  deed  of 
evil  and  treachery  upon  three  of  the 
champions  of  the  Alban  or  Scottish 
Gael,  Naysha  (Naois)  and  his  two 
brothers,  the  sons  of  Usna,  though 
the  hero  Usna  had  been  allied  to  him 
and  was  bond-brother  in  war  and 
courtesy. 

The  period  of  this  drama  is  about 
four  years  after  the  elopement  of 
Deirdre,  as  told  in  the  old  tale 
of  Deirdre  and  the  Sons  of  Usna: 
a  retold  version  of  which,  from. 
Gaelic  and  other  sources,  has  already 
appeared  in  the  Old  World  Series 
of  reprints.  More  explicitly,  the 
actual  period  is  the  year  following 
the  triumph  of  Concobar's  inveterate 
hate  in  his  treacherous  murder  of 
Naysha  {Naois)  and  his   brothers 


NOTE 

Ailne  {Ainnle)  and  Ardan,  because 
of  Naysha's  love  of  Deirdre  {the 
High-Kings  ward  and  most  beauti- 
ful woman  of  her  time^  and  by 
Concobar  destined  to  be  his  queen^ 
despite  the  prophecies  at  her  birth) 
and  of  Deirdre's  for  N ay s ha. 
Because  of  broken  kingly  honour, 
and  the  slaying  of  the  sons  of  Usna 
and  the  death  of  Deirdre,  Cormac 
Conlingas,  Concobar  s  son  and  heir, 
with  other  champions,  seceded  and 
joined  the  dread  enemy  Queen  Meave, 
then  advancing  against  the  Ultonian 
Kingdom  from  the  middle  provinces 
and  the  west}  Conaill  Carna 
and  the  youthful  Setanta  \already 
famous    as    the    Hound    (Cu),    or 

I  As  the  names  have  everywhere  been  anglicised  .  . 
.  .  .  e.  g.  Medb  or  Medbh  into  Meave,  pronounced 
Mave;  and  Naois  into  Naysha  .  .  .  I  need  add 
only  that  Cuchulain  is  pronounced  Coohoolin,  and 
Eilidh,  Eily. 


NOTE 

Cuchulain,  the  Hound  of  Chulain\ 
were  among  those  who  in  their 
loyalty  remained  with  Concobar  to 
fight  with  vain  magnificent  heroism 
against  the  will  of  the  gods. 

It  is  at  this  juncture  that  Cormac 
Conlingas,  suddenly  deciding  to 
return  to  Uladh  to  rejoin  Concobar 
and  the  Red  Branch,  is  seduced  by 
his  great  love  for  the  wife  of 
Cravetheen  the  Harper,  arid,  while 
with  her,  is  burned  to  death  by 
Cravetheen, 

When  the  drama  opens,  Concobar 
(already,  as  was  presaged,  brought  to 
the  verge  of  madness  by  his  thwarted 
and  inconsolable  passion  for  Deirdre, 
and  by  his  urikingly  and  treacherous 
revenge  and  its  outcome)  does  not 
know  that  this  new  evil  is  come 
upon  him  and  his  house  and  nation, 
though  in  truth  the  end  is  at  hand 


NOTE 

when  the  star  of  Ireland  shall  set  in 
blood  from  the  north  to  the  south 
and  from  the  east  to  the  west. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

CoNCOBAR  Mac  Nessa.  King  of  Ulster  and 
High-King  of  Ireland. 

DuACH.     A  Druid. 

CoEL.     An  Old  Blind  Harper. 

Cravetheen.  a  Harper  of  the  Kingship 
of  Conairey  M6r. 

Main^.     a  Boy. 
and 

Ultonian  Warriors. 

Unseen  :  Mourners  passing  through  the  for- 
est with  the  charred  bodies  of  Cormac 
Conlingas  and  Eilidh  the  Fair. 

Chorus  oj  Harpers. 


SCENE  I 


open  glade  in  a  forest  of  pines  and 
oaks,  with  the  silent  fires  of  sunset 
on  the  boles.  Confused  cries  are 
heard,  but  as  though  a  long  way 
off.  A  dishevelled  savage  figure, 
clad  in  deerskin  and  hide-bound 
leggings,  slips  forward  furtively 
from  tree  to  tree.  His  long  dark 
locks  fall  about  his  misshapen 
shoulders:  his  left  arm  is  in  a 
sling:  in  his  right  hand  he 
carries  a  spear.  He  stands  at 
last  listening  inte^itly. 

Starting  abruptly  he  lifts  his  spear, 
but  slowly  lowers  it  as  an  old 
man,  blind,  clad  iji  a  white  robe, 
with  flat  gold  cirque  about  his 
waist  and  an  oak- fillet  round  his 
head,  comes  forward  leanhig  on 
a  staff. 


COEL. 

HO  is  it  who  is  near 
me?  I  hear  the  quick 
breath  of  one  who  .  .  . 
of  one  who  hunts  ...  or 
is  hunted. 

CRAVETHEEN. 

Druid,  I  am  a  stranger.  Where 
am  I  ?     Tell  me  your  name  ? 

COEL. 

I  am  Coel  the  Druid  .  .  .  Coel 
the  old  blind  harper. 

CRAVETHEEN. 

I  too  am  a  harper,  though  I  am 
no  druid.  I  am  Cravetheen  the 
Harper.  I  am  warrior  and  chief 
harper  to  the  great  king  Cbnairey 
Mbr.  I  crave  sanctuary,  Coel  the 
Harper!  I  crave  sanctuary  .  .  . 
quick!  quick! 

13 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 
COEL. 

From  whom  ? 

The  confused  cries  are  louder  and 
grow  louder,  then  cease, 

CRAVETHEEN  {shaking  his 
spear). 

From  them, 

COEL. 

You  are  safe  here.  Tell  me  this, 
you  who  are  called  Cravetheen: 
where  is  Cormac  Conlingas,  the  son 
of  the  High-King  Concobar.?  Does 
he  hasten  north  to  the  side  of  his 
father  whom  he  deserted,  because 
Concobar  the  king  slew  the  sons  of 
Usna,  and  because  Deirdre  died 
of  that  great  sorrow,  Deirdre,  the 
the  wife  of  Naysha,  the  pride  of  the 
house  of  Usna? 


14 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

CRAVETHEEN  {with  savage 
mocking). 

Ay,  a  great  king  truly,  Concobar, 
the  son  of  Nessa !  From  childhood 
he  kept  the  beautiful  Deirdre  to  be 
his  queen,  but  Naysha  swooped  like 
a  hawk  and  carried  her  to  the  north, 
because  each  loved  each  and  laughed 
at  the  king.  And  then  did  the  great 
Concobar  track  him  through  Eire 
to  Alba?  Nol  Did  he  force  the 
sword  upon  him,  Deirdre's  beloved  ? 
No !  For  three  years  he  lay  like  a 
wolf  on  a  hillside  staring  at  a  far- 
off  fold  .  .  .  and  then  with  smooth 
words  he  won  Naysha  and  his  two 
hero-brothers,  and  the  beautiful 
Deirdre,  and  gave  kingly  warrant 
to  them  .  .  .  and  then,  ha!  then 
was  the  noise  of  swords,  then  were 
red  streams  of  blood,  where  the 
House  of  Usna  fought  the  fight  of 

15 


THE    HOUSE  OF    USNA 

three  heroes  against  a  multitude 
...  and  their  shameful  glorious 
death  .  .  .  and  then  Deirdre,  won- 
der of  the  world,  did  Concobar  win 
her  at  the  last?  No!  No!  She 
fell  dead  by  the  side  of  him  whom 
she  loved,  by  the  body  of  Naysha, 
the  son  of  Usna!  A  true  queen, 
Deirdre  the  Beautiful! 

CO  EL  (raising  his  staff). 
Who  are  you  ?     Who  are  you  ? 
No  sanctuary  here  for  the  foe  of 
Concobar  the  king ! 

CRAVETHEEN  {with  a  loud, 
wailing,  chanting  voice). 

I  am  the  voice  of  the  House  of 
Usna.  I  am  the  voice  in  the  wind 
crying  for  ever  and  ever  "  Kings 
shall  lie  in  the  dust:  great  princes 
shall  be  brought  to  shame:  the 
champions  of  the  mighty  shall  be 

i6 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

as  swordsmen  waving  reeds,  as 
spearmen  spearing  the  grass,  as  men 
pursuing  and  wooing  shadows!" 
{A  momenf s pause)  Ay,  by  the  sun 
and  wind,  Coel  the  Blind,  I  am  the 
broken  spear  of  the  great  gods  .  .  . 
the  spear  to  slay  them  that  foully 
slew  the  sons  of  Usna  .  .  .  the 
spear  to  goad  to  madness  Concobar 
the  king ! 

COEL  {angrily). 
Tell  me,  mad  fool,  do   you  fly 
from  the  wrath  of  Cormac  Conlin- 
gas,  the  son  of  Concobar  ? 

CRAVETHEEN  {laughing 
mockingly), 
Cormac,  the  son  of  Concobar! 
Cormac  Conlingas,  Cormac  of  the 
Yellow  Locks !  No,  no,  old  man, 
I  do  not  fly  before  the  wrath  of 
Cormac  the  Beautiful !     Nor  shall 

17 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

any  man  again  fly  before  him,  before 
Cormac  the  Beautiful,  Cormac  the 
Prince,  Cormac  the  son  of  Concobar ! 

CO  EL  {eagerly). 

What!  is  the  king's  son  dead  .  .  . 
is  he  slain  ? 

CRAVETHEEN 

{coming  close,  and  speaking  low,  in  a 
changed  voice). 

Old  man,  there  was  a  woman  of 
my  people  as  beautiful  as  Deirdre. 
She  loved  an  Ultonian,  that  had 
for  name  Cormac  .  .  .  Cormac  Con- 
lingas.  Cbnairey  Mbr  was  fierce 
with  anger  at  that,  and  sent  him 
away,  but  against  her  will,  and  gave 
her  to  me,  who  loved  her,  though 
she  hated  me.  So  I  took  her  to 
my  Dun.  But  this  Cormac  came 
there  and  found  her  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  . 

i8 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

oh,  I  too  came  back  suddenly,  and 
learned  that  he  was  there ! 

A  long  wailing  chant  is  heard, 
COEL. 

Hush  !     What  is  that  ? 

CRAVETHEEN  {still  leaning 

close^  and  speaking  low). 
That?  .  .  .  That  is  the  wailing 
of  those  who  carry  hither  to  Con- 
cobar  the  dead  bodies  of  Cormac 
his  son  and  Eilidh  the  Fair.  {Sud- 
denly springing  back,  and  crying 
loudly)  For  I  set  fire  to  the  great 
Dun,  O  Coel  the  Blind,  and  I 
laughed  when  the  red  flames  swept 
up  to  where  the  sleepers  lay  —  and 
they  died,  Cormac  and  Eilidh,  to 
the  glad  death-song  of  me,  Crave- 
theen  the  Harper!  Two  charred 
logs  these  mourners  carry  now  — 
Ah-h-h! 


19 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

(As  he  cries  a  spear  whirls  across 
the  stage  from  left  to  right,  then 
another^  then  a  third,  which  strikes 
the  ground  at  Cravetheen's  feet. 
Wild  cries  are  heard — a  rush  — 
and  six  or  eight  Ultonian  warriors 
leap  forward,  crying  as  they  seize 
him : ) 

WARRIORS. 

Death  to  the  Harper!  —  death 
to  Cravetheen  the  Harper,  who  has 
slain  the  king's  son ! 


20 


SCENE  II 


In  the  background,  vague  in  the 
moonlight,  the  walls  of  a  great 
Diin  or  ancient  fortress,  half 
obscured  by  trees.  To  the  right, 
in  deep  shadow,  an  oak,  Con- 
COBAR,  wrapt  in  a  white  robe, 
with  a  fillet  of  gold  round  his 
head,  leans  in  silence  against 
the  oak.  In  front,  in  the  moon- 
light, the  boy  Maine,  clad  in  a 
deerskin,  lies  on  the  ground, 
looking  towards  the  king,  and 
playing  softly  upon  a  reed  with 
seven  holes  in  it. 


CONCOBAR. 

USH. 

Maine  ceases  playing, 

i  CONCOBAR    {coming 
slowly  forward). 
Where  is  Deirdre? 

MAINfi 

(unstirring,,  plays  softly). 

CONCOBAR 

(slowly  advancing,  till  he  stands  above 
Maine,  and  looks  down  at  him^  in 
silence). 

Where  is  Deirdre  ? 
MAINfi 
[taking  the  reed  from  his  mouth,  in 
a  low, prolonged,  chanting  voice): 

Deirdre   is   dead!     Deirdre   the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  I 

CONCOBAR. 

It  is  the  voice  of  my  dreams. 

23 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

MAINfi. 

Deirdre  is  dead  I  Deirdre  the 
Beautiful  is  dead^  is  dead  I 

CONCOBAR  (muttering), 

Duach  the  Wise.  .  .  .  Where  is 
Duach  the  Wise  ?  These  were  his 
words :  "  In  the  whisper  of  the  leaf 
by  night,  in  the  first  moaning  air  of 
the  new  wind,  in  the  voice  of  the 
wave,  that  which  has  been  is  told, 
that  which  is  to  be  is  known."  O 
heart  of  my  heart.  .  .  .  Deirdre,  my 
love,  my  desire ! 

MAINfi 

rises  and  goes  silently  over  to  the  oaky 

and  leans  against  it,  lost  in  shadow, 

CONCOBAR. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  Deirdre! 
Love  of  my  love,  desire  of  all 
desire  —  can  no  voice  rise  to  those 
red  lips,  red  as  rowans,  in  that  silent 

24 


THE    HOUSE  OF    USNA 

place?  There  is  no  sadness  like 
unto  the  sadness  of  the  king. 
Dream  of  dreams,  I  trampled  all 
dreams  till  the  hour  of  my  desire, 
and  in  that  hour  you  were  stolen 
from  me :  and  in  his  heart  the  king 
was  as  a  swineherd  herding  swine, 
a  helot,  a  slave.  Was  it  I  who  put 
death  upon  Naysha  the  Fair  ?  Was 
it  I  who  put  death  upon  the  sons  of 
Usna?  It  was  not  I,  by  the  Sun 
and  the  Moon !  It  was  the  beauty 
of  Deirdre.  O  beauty  too  great 
and  sore !  Deirdre,  love  of  my  love, 
sorrow  of  my  sorrow,  grief  of  my 
grief !  I  am  old,  because  of  my  sor- 
row. There  is  no  king  so  great 
that  he  may  not  perish  because  of 
a  woman's  love.  She  sleeps:  she 
sleeps :  she  is  not  dead !  I  will  go 
to  the  grianan,  and  will  cry  Heart 
0  Beauty,  awake  !    It  is  /,  Concobar 

25 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

the  King!  She  will  hear,  and  she 
will  put  white  hands  through  her 
hair,  like  white  doves  going  into 
the  shadow  of  a  wood :  and  I  will 
see  her  eyes  like  stars,  and  her  face 
pale  and  wonderful  as  dawn,  and  her 
lips  like  twilight  water,  and  she  will 
sigh,  and  my  heart  will  be  as  wind 
fainting  in  hot  grass,  and  I  will 
laugh  because  that  I  am  made  king 
of  the  world  and  as  the  old  gods, 
but  greater  than  they,  greater  than 
they,  greater  than  they ! 

MAINfi  (chanting  slowly 
from  the  shadow), 

Deirdre  is    dead!     Deirdre   the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  ! 

CONCOBAR 
(slowly  turning,  and  looking  towards 
the  shadow  whence  the  sound  came). 

Who  spoke  ? 

(Silence^ 

26 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

CONCOBAR. 

Who  spoke  ?  ( Turning  again) : — 
It  was  the  pulse  of  my  heart.  They 
lie  who  say  that  Deirdre  is  dead. 
The  sons  of  Usna  are  dead.  May 
the  dust  of  Naysha  rot  among  the 
worms  of  the  earth.  It  was  he  who 
was  king,  not  I !  It  was  he  whom 
Deirdre  loved  —  Deirdre,  who  was 
so  fair,  the  most  beautiful  of  women ; 
my  dream,  my  love  ! 

A  lo7tg  wailing  cry  is  heard, 
CoNCOBAR  lifts  his  head^  and  listens, 

CONCOBAR. 

It  is  Duach.  The  Druid  has 
deep  wisdom.  I  will  ask  him  to 
tell  me  where  Deirdre  is.  There 
is  no  woman  in  the  world  for  me 
but  the  daughter  of  Felim.  Her 
beauty  is  more  terrible  than  day  to 
the  creatures  of  the  night;  more 

27 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

mysterious  than  night  to  the  winged 
children  of  the  noon. 

The  boughs  dispart^  and  a  tall, 
white-haired  man,  clad  in  white, 
with  a  gold  belt,  and  with  a  wreath 
of  oak  leaves,  enters  from  the  left, 

DUACH. 
Hail,  O  king ! 

CONCOBAR. 

I  heard  the  howl  of  the  grey  wolf, 
but  now  you  come  alone.  Where 
is  the  wolf  ? 

DUACH. 

There  was  no  wolf.  It  was  an 
image  only  of  your  own  mind.  It 
was  but  your  own  sorrow,  O  king. 

CONCOBAR. 

Tell  me,  Duach,  who  lives  in 
yonder  great  Dun  ? 

28 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH 

(looking  at  the  king  curiously,  then 
slowly),  Concobar  the  king ;  with 
the  comrades  of  the  king,  and  his 
guards :  his  harpers  and  poets  ;  the 
women  of  the  household. 

CONCOBAR. 

Can  you  see  the  grianan,  Duach  ? 

DUACH. 
I  see  the  grianan,  Concobar  mac 
Nessa. 

CONCOBAR. 
Nessa.  .  .  yes,  I  am  the  son  of 
Nessa.  .  .  .  Nessa,  who  was  so  fair. 
Tell  me,  Duach ;  in  her  youth  was 
she  so  beautiful  as  the  harpers  and 
poets  say  ? 

DUACH. 

She  was  so  beautiful   that  few 
looked  at  her  untroubled.     In  her 

29 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

eyes  youths  dreamed;  old  men 
looked  back.  To  all  men  Nessa 
was  a  light  and  a  flame. 

CONCOBAR. 

Was  she  fair,  as  Deirdre  is  fair  ? 
Was  she  beautiful,  as  Deirdre  is 
beautiful  ? 

DUACH. 
Deirdre,  whom  you  have  slain,  is 
dead. 

CONCOBAR  {calling). 
Deirdre,  dear  love,  come !     I  am 
here!     I  wait! 

DUACH. 

From  that  silence  where  both  are, 
their  names  only  may  come  back 
like  falling  dew. 

CONCOBAR. 

There  is  none  so  beautiful  as 
Deirdre. 

30 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

She  sleeps  by  Naysha,  son  of 
Usna. 

CONCOBAR  {furiously). 
You   lie,  old   man.     Naysha    is 
dead. 

DUACH. 
She   sleeps   by   Naysha,   son  of 
Usna. 

CONCOBAR  (troubled). 
Tell  me !     When  shall  she  wake } 

DUACH. 

She  shall  wake  no  more. 

CONCOBAR. 

Speak  no  lies,  Druid.  I  heard 
her  laugh  a  brief  while  ago.  She 
came  out  into  the  woods  at  the 
rising  of  the  moon. 

31 


/ 


THE    HOUSE  OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

She  will  wake  no  more. 
Silence, 

DUACH. 

Hearken,  Concobar  mac  Nessa! 
That  was  an  evil  deed,  the  slaying 
of  the  sons  of  Usna.  They  were 
the  noblest  of  all  the  Gaels  of  Eri 
and  Alba. 

CONCOBAR  {sullenly). 
They  are  dead. 

DUACH. 

They  are  more  to  bfe  feared  dead 
than  when  their  young,  sweet, 
terrible  life  was  upon  them.  Their 
voices  cry  for  vengeance,  and  all 
men  hear.     Women  whisper. 

CONCOBAR. 

What  do  they  whisper? 

32 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

"  Most  fair  and  beautiful  were 
the  sons  of  Usna,  slain  treacherously 
by  Concobar  the  High-King^ 

CONCOBAR. 

What  vengeance  is  called  for  by 
those  who  cry  for  an  eric  ? 

DUACH. 
It  is  no  eric  they  cry,  but  the 
broken  honour  of  the  king. 

CONCOBAR. 

And  what  do  the  young  men  say.? 

DUACH. 

They  say :  ^^  He  has  slain  the  image 
of  our  desired 

CONCOBAR. 

And  what  is  the  burthen  of  the 
song  the  singers  sing .? 

33 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

"  The  beauty  of  the  world  is  now 
as  an  old  song  that  is  sung^ 

Silence, 

MAINfi 
{from  the  shadow  of  the  oak^  strikes 
a  note^  and^  in  a  low  voice^  chaftts 
slowly  — 

Deirdre  is  dead  I  Deirdre  the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  I ) 

CONCOBAR. 

Can  dreams  have  a  voice  ? 

DUACH. 

They  alone  speak.  It  is  our 
spoken  words  that  are  the  idle 
dreams. 

CONCOBAR. 

Dreams  —  dreams.  I  am  sick  of 
dreams !  It  is  love  I  long  for  —  my 
lost  love !     my  lost  love ! 

34 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 
It  is  a  madness,  that  love. 

CONCOBAR. 

Better  that  madness  than  all 
wisdom. 

Silence, 

MAINfi 
{playing  a  note  or  two,  slowly  chants, 
from  the  shadow  of  the  oak  — 

Deirdre  is  dead  I  Deirdre  the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  I ) 

CONCOBAR. 

Duach,  can  dreams  speak .? 

DUACH  (aside). 

The  dead,  old  wisdom,  the  wind, 
dreams  —  these  speak.  All  else  are 
troubled  murmurs,  confused  cries, 
echoes  of  echoes. 

35 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 

CONCOBAR 

stands  with  outstretched  arms,  star- 
ing towards  the  Ditn, 

DUACH. 
Death  and  beauty  are  in  his  eyes. 

CONCOBAR 

with  a  sudden,  passionate  gesture, 
flinging  up  his  arms  supplicatingly, 
Deirdre,  my  queen,  my  dream,  my 
desire !  Death  and  beauty  were  in 
your  eyes  as  a  little  child,  oh,  fawn 
of  women,  when  I  lit  my  dreams  at 
your  face  before  the  House  of  Usna 
did  me  that  bitter,  bitter  wrong !  .  . . 
that  bitter,  bitter  wrong!  O  Naysha, 
more  terrible  your  quiet  smile  in 
death  than  all  the  armies  of  Meave ! 
Deirdre,  Deirdre,  death  and  beauty 
are  in  your  eyes,  my  queen,  my 
dream,  my  desire  I 

36 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

With  a  sobbing  cry  he  sinks  to  his 
knees ^  bows  his  head,  and  pulls  his 
robe  about  him. 

MAINfi 

slowly  advances  from  the  shadow, 
softly  playing  on  his  reed  flute, 

DUACH. 

Sing! 

MAINfi 

[sings)  \ 

Dim  face  of  Beauty  haunting  all  the  world, 
Fair  face  of  Beauty  all  too  fair  to  see, 
Where  the  lost  stars  adown  the  heavens  are 
hurled, 

There,  there  alone  for  thee 
May  white  peace  be. 

For  here,  where  all  the  dreams  of  men  are 

whirled 
Like  sere,  torn  leaves  of  autumn  to  and  fro. 
There  is  no  place  for  thee  in  all  the  world. 
Who  drifted  as  a  star, 
Beyond,  afar. 

37 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 

Beauty^  sad  face  of  Beauty^  Mystery^  Won- 
der^ 
What  are  these  dreams  to  foolish  babbling 

men — 
Who  cry  with  little  noises  ^?ieath  the  thunder 
Of  ages  ground  to  sand, 
To  a  little  sand? 

(Con COB AR  slowly  rises.  He  turns 
and  looks  at  Maine.) 

CONCOBAR. 

Who  made  that  song  ? 

MAINfi. 

Cormac  the  Red,  the  father  of 
my  father,  and  son  of  Felim  the 
Harper. 

CONCOBAR. 

Felim!  .  .  .  Felim  the  Harper  — 
it  was  he  who  was  the  father  of 
Deirdre.  He  harps  no  more.  ( Turn- 
ing to  DuACH.)  Do  you  remember 
when  we  went  to  the  house  of  Felim 

38 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

the  Harper  in  the  days  of  my  youth  ? 
Do  you  remember  the  birthnight 
of  Deirdre  ? 

DUACH. 

Ay. 

CONCOBAR. 

And  the  prophecy  of  Cathba  the 
Arch-Druid  ? 

DUACH. 

Ay:  that  before  his  eyes  he  saw 
a  sea  of  blood,  and  saw  it  rise  and 
rise  and  rise  till  it  overflowed  great 
straths,  and  laved  the  flanks  of  high 
hills,  and  from  the  summits  of  the 
mountains  poured  down  upon  the 
lands  of  the  Gael  in  a  thundering 
flood,  blood-red,  to  the  blood-red 
sea. 

CONCOBAR  {troubled,  and  mov- 
ing slowly  to  and  fro). 

Did  Cathba  see  the  end  ? 


39 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

DUACH. 
He  saw  the  end. 

CONCOBAR. 
It  was  but  the  idle  wisdom  of  a 
dreamer. 

DUACH. 

That  idle  wisdom  is  the  utterance 
of   the   gods.     The  dreamers  and 
poets  and  seers  are  their  voices. 
CONCOBAR. 

What  were  the  last  words  of 
Cathba  the  Wise  ? 

DUACH. 

That  Eire,  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  lands  under  the  sun,  should  be 
the  saddest  of  all  lands  under  the 
sun.  Blood  shall  run  in  that  land 
till  Famine  shall  make  her  home 
there,  he  said:  and  tears  shall  be 
shed  for  it  in  every  age:  and  all 
wisdom  and  beauty  and  hope  shall 

40 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

grow  there:  and  she  shall  be  a 
lamp,  and  then  know  the  darkness 
of  darkness.  But  before  the  end 
she  shall  be  a  queenly  land  again, 
and  the  nations  shall  bow  before 
her  as  the  soul  of  peoples  born 
anew.  For  into  all  the  nations  of 
the  world,  he  said,  Eire  shall  die, 
but  shall  live  again.  She  shall  be 
the  soul  of  the  nations. 

CONCOBAR. 

Too  many  dreams  .  .  .  too  many 
dreams } 

DUACH. 

Cathba  saw  all  that  is  to  be. 
CONCOBAR. 

If  Felim  the  Harper  were  to  come 
again.  .  .  . 

DUACH. 

He  would  ask:  Where  is  Emain 
Macha,  the  royal  city,  the  beautiful 

41 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

city  ?  Where  are  the  sons  of  Usna? 
Where  is  Deirdre,  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  women  ?  Where  is  the  glory 
of  the  Red  Branch  ? 

CONCOBAR  (confusedly). 

The  Red  Branch !  .  .  .  The  Red 
Branch!  At  least,  at  least,  the 
Red  Branch  stands ! 

DUACH. 

What  of  Fergus?  .  .  .  what  of 
Cormac  Conlingas?  They  and  a 
third  of  the  Red  Branch  are  gone 
from  you:  Fergus,  the  first  cham- 
pion of  Ulla;  Cormac  Conlingas, 
the  greatest  of  your  sons,  the  king 
that  is  to  be ! 

CONCOBAR. 

Conaill  Carna  is  with  me  .  .  . 
and  Setanta  the  wonderful  youth, 
that  is  called  Cuchulain. 

42 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 
DUACH. 

Yet  neither  they  nor  the  gods 
themselves  shall  in  the  end  prevail. 

CONCOBAR  {with  sudden 
passion), 

Duach,  win  back  to  me  my  son 
Cormac,  and  I  will  give  you  what- 
soever you  will  —  yea,  my  kingship. 
Him  only  do  I  love  of  all  men,  him 
only,  my  son  who  is  so  fair  and 
proud  and  beautiful.  He  shall  be 
high-king;  he  and  he  only  is  the 
son  of  my  kinghood. 

DUACH. 
That  which  is  to  be,  will  be. 

CONCOBAR  {looking  fixedly 
at  him). 

Shall  not  Cormac  Conlingas  be 
king  after  me  ? 

43 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

DUACH. 
Have  you  forgotten,  O  king! 
Cormac  mac  Concobar  is  in  arms 
against  you.  He  and  Fergus  and 
a  third  of  the  Red  Branch  are  with 
Queen  Meave,  whose  armies  gather 
to  overwhelm  you,  to  do  to  Ulla  as 
the  Great  Queen  has  already  done 
to  Emain  Macha,  your  proud  city. 

CONCOBAR. 

Cormac,  my  son,  my  son ! 
DUACH. 

These  were  the  words  he  sent: 
"  For  that  which  you  did  upon 
Naysha  and  the  sons  of  Usna,  and 
for  that  shame  which  you  brought 
upon  Fergus  mac  Roy,  and  because 
of  the  beauty  of  Deirdre  which  is 
no  more  in  the  world  because  of 
you  .  .  .  the  Sword  and  Sorrow, 
Sorrow  and  the  Sword ! " 

44 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 

CONCOBAR  (angrily  and 
impatiently), 

I  care  not !  I  care  not !  He 
shall  be  king.  Listen!  Duach;  I 
will  send  word  to  Cormac  that  I  am 
weary  of  the  kingship.  He  shall  be 
Tanist,  with  all  power.  He  shall 
be  the  Ard-Righ  himself.  He 
shall  save  Eire.  The  prophecies  of 
Cathba  shall  be  set  at  nought.  He 
shall  be  a  great  king.  All  Eire  shall 
call  him  king.  All  the  Gaels 
shall  call  him  Ard-Righ.  His  son's 
sons  shall  reign  after  him.  Ireland 
shall  be  made  one  nation,  because 
of  this  great  king  —  Cormac,  the 
son  of  Concobar,thesonof  Flachtna, 
kings  and  sons  of  kings ! 
DUACH. 

Beware,  O  Concobar,  of  the  foam 
of  dreams.  Tt  is  only  the  great 
wave  that  will  lift  Eire. 

45 


y 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

CONCOBAR. 
The  great  wave  ?     Shall  not  that 
be  the  king  ? 

DUACH. 

Through  no  king  can  Eire 
become  one  nation  and  great,  but 
only  through  the  kinglihood  of  her 
sons  and  daughters.  In  the  end, 
when  all  are  royal  of  soul,  Eire  shall 
be  the  first  of  the  nations  of  the 
world. 

CONCOBAR  (confusedly). 

In  the  end?  ...  In  the  end.? 
Of  what  do  you  speak.?  Cormac 
shall  be  king,  he  and  his  sons  after 
him.  The  blood  of  the  gods  is  in 
Essa,  his  wife. 

DUACH 

(leaning  forward,  and  staring  into 
the  kings  face), 

46 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

Essa  ?  .  .  .  Have  you  not  heard  ? 
Essa  is  dead ! 

CONCOBAR. 

Essa  is  not  dead.  I  saw  her  and 
Deirdre  and  Dectera,  my  sister, 
and  my  mother  Nessa,  walking  in 
the  wood  at  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

DUACH  (muttering). 
Ay,  that  might  well  be.     It  is  the 
hour  of  the  dead. 

CONCOBAR  {sadly\ 
Is  she  dead,  Essa,  daughter  of 
Etain  the  Wonderful  ? 

DUACH. 

She  is  not  dead,  being  of  the 
Divine  race.  But  her  body  lies  at 
Rath  Nessa,  where  in  the  dream  of 
death  she  can  look  for  ever  upon 
the  Hill  of  Tara. 


47 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

CONCOBAR. 

Hopes  fall  about  me  as  old  leaves. 
{A  pause)  Nevertheless,  I  will  send 
word  to  Cormac  at  the  camp  of 
Queen  Meave.  There  shall  be  no 
more  war.  Cormac  Conlingas  shall 
be  king. 

DUACH. 

Cormac  is  not  there.  He  is  one 
of  the  nine  hostages  at  the  Dun  of 
Cbnairey  M6r,  the  king  of  the 
Middle  Province.  Meave  marches 
against  him. 

CONCOBAR. 

Fergus  was  king  no  more  because 
of  Nessa:  I  am  king  no  more 
because  of  Deirdre.  She  is  not 
here,  the  beautiful  Deirdre.  She 
is  here  no  more.  I  will  go  into  the 
woods.  I  will  go  into  the  woods, 
and  upon  the  hills.     I  am  led  by 

48 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

dreams  and  visions.     Deirdre,  my 
dream  and  my  desire ! 

DUACH  (aside). 
The  prophecy  of  the  sting  that 
was  to  sting  to  madness  the  King 
of  the  Ultonians !     The  gods  see 
far! 

CONCOBAR  {starting). 
Who  .  .  .  what  is  that  ? 

DUACH. 
I  see  nothing. 

CONCOBAR  {pointing). 
Look!  .  .  .  yonder  ...  a  white 
hound  —  a  white  hound,  that  moves 
through  the  wood !     How  swift  and 
silent  .  .  .  see,  his  head  is  low  .  .  . 
he  is  on  the  trail  ...  is  it  Rumac  '^, 

AN  ECHO  IN  THE  WOODS. 

Rumac  !    Cormac  !    Cormac  ! 


49 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

CoNCOBAR  moves  backward  a  step. 
What !    Cormac ! .  .  .  Cormac  ?  . . . 
my  son  Cormac ! 

DUACH 

{staring  into  the  dusk  of  the  woods), 
I  see  no  hound.  .  .  .  Where  is 
the  white  hound  ? 

CONCOBAR. 

Yonder  .  .  .  under  the  oaks  .  .  . 
he  goes  swiftly  to  the  place  where 
he  was  born. 

DUACH. 

Who.? 

CONCOBAR. 

Cormac.  Cormac  Conlingas,  my 
son.  Is  this  evil  fallen  upon  me 
because  of  the  death  of  Deirdre.? 
Is  this  evil  come  upon  me  out  of 
the  House  of  Usna? 

50 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

The   House  of   Usna  is  in  the 
dust. 

CONCOBAR 

{distraught,  loudly  ckmtts). 
The  grey  wind  weeps,  the  grey  wind  weeps, 

the  grey  wind  weeps  ; 
Dust  on  her  breasts,  dust  in  her  eyes,  the 
grey  wind  weeps  I 

DUACH. 
The  hound  is  gone. 

CONCOBAR 

{putting  his  finger  on  his  lips). 
Hush!  do  you  hear  the  little 
children  of  the  wind  .  .  .  rustling 
and  laughing  .  .  .  the  little  children 
of  the  wind  ?  Or  are  they  the  little 
white  feet  of  those  who  come  at 
dusk?  Or  are  they  the  waves  of 
the  Moyle  .  .  .  tears,  tears,  sighs, 
oh  tears,  tears,  tears,  of  Deirdre 
upon  the  dark  waters  of  the  Moyle ! 

51 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

DUACH. 

Deirdre  is  in  that  far  place  where 
your  hound  of  old  is  .  .  .  where 
Rumac  bays  against  a  moon  that 
does  not  set  or  wane. 

CONCOBAR  {calling), 

Rumac !     Rumac ! 

ECHO. 

Coomac  !     Coomac  ! 

Cormac,  my  beautiful  son  !     Cor- 

mac  !  come !  come  ! 

A  sound  of  a  harp  is  heard.    Both 

start, 

CONCOBAR. 

Who  comes  ? 

DUACH. 
Someone    comes    through    the 

wood. 

CONCOBAR 

(drawing  his  sword).    It  is  Naysha, 
son  of  Usna.     Night  after  night  I 

52 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

hear  him  come  harping  through  the 
woods.  Sometimes  I  see  him, 
standing  under  an  oak.  He  calls 
upon  Deirdre. 

DUACH. 

It  is  Coel  mac  Coel,  the  old  blind 
harper  —  he  who  loved  Macha  the 
great  queen,  and  was  blinded  by 
her  because  that  he  loved  overmuch. 
He  alone  wandered  free  out  of 
Emain  Macha  when  the  beautiful 
city  was  laid  waste.  He  is  not 
alone;  there  are  the  young  bards 
and  minstrels  with  him.  For  the 
last  three  nights  they  have  come 
in  the  darkness,  and  sung  before 
the  Royal  Dun  the  song  which 
Coel  made  of  Macha  and  her  beau- 
tiful city.     Hark !     They  sing  now. 

The  noise  of  harps  and  tympans. 
From  the  wood  comes  the  loud 
chanting  voice  of  Coel  : 

53 


THE     HOUSE    OF     USNA 

6?,  Uis  a  good  house,  and  a  palace  fairy 
the  DUn  of  Macha^ 
And  happy  with  a  great  household  is 
Macha  there : 
Druids   she  has,   and  bards,   minstrels, 
harpers,  knights  ; 
Hosts  of  servants  she  has,  and  wonders 

beautiful  and  rare, 
But  nought  so   wonderful  and  sweet 
as  her  face,  queenly  fair, 

O  Macha  of  the  Ruddy  Hair  / 

{Choric  voices  in  a  loud,  swelltJtg 
chant): 

O  Macha  of  the  Ruddy  Hair! 

COEL  ckafits : 

7he  colour  of  her  great  Diln  is  the  shining 

whiteness  of  lime, 
And  within    it  are  floors    strewn  with 

green  rushes  and  couches  white 
Soft  wondrous  silks  and  blue  gold-claspt 

mantles  and  furs 
Are  there,  and  jewelled  golden  cups  for 

revelry  by  night : 


54 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

Thy  grianan  of  gold  and  glass  is  filled 
with  sunshine-light^ 

O  Macha,  queen  by  day^  queen 
by  night! 

( Choric  Voices )  ; 
O  Macha,  queen  by  day,  queen 
by  night ! 

Beyond  the  green  portals^  and  the  brown 

and  red  thatch  of  wings 
Striped  orderly^  the  wings  of  innumerous 

stricken  birds, 
A  zvide  shining  floor  reaches  from  wall 

to  wall,  wondrously  carven 
Out  of  a  sheet  of  silver,   whereon   are 

graven  swords 
Intricately    ablaze:    mistress    oj    many 

hoards 

Art  thou,  Macha  of  few  words  I 

{Choric  Voices )  ; 

O  Macha  of  few  words ! 

Fair  indeed  is  thy  couch,  but  fairer  still 
is  thy  throne, 

55 


THE     HOUSE    OF     USNA 

A  chair  it  is,  all  of  a  blaze  of  wonderful 

yellow  gold: 
There    thou    sittesi,    and   watchest    the 

women  going  to  and  fro, 
Each   in  garments  fair   and  with  long 

locks  twisted  fold  in  fold: 
With  the  joy  that  is  in  thy  house  men 

would  not  grow  old, 

O  Macha,  proud,  austere,  cold. 


[Choric  Voices ) : 

O  Macha,  proud,  austere,  cold. 

Of  a  surety  there  is  much  joy  to  be  had  oj 

thee  and  thine, 
There  in  the  song-siveet  sunlit  botvers  in 

that  place; 
Wounded  men  might  sink  in  sleep  and 

be  well  content 
So  to  sleep,  and  to  dream  perchance,  and 

know  no  other  grace 
J7ian  to  wake  and  look  betimes  on  thy 

proud  queenly  face, 

O  Macha  of  the  Proud  Face  I 


56 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

{Choric  Voices): 

O  Macha  of  the  Proud  Face ! 

And  if  there  be  any  here  who  wish  to 

know  more  of  this  wonder^ 
Go^  you  will  find  all  as  I  have  shown,  as 

I  have  said : 
From  beneath  its  portico,  thatched  with 

wings  of  birds  blue  and  yellow, 
Reaches  a  green  lawn,  where  a  fount  is 

fed 
From  crystal  and  gems :  of  crystal  and 

gold  each  bed 

In  the  house  of  Macha  of  the 
Ruddy  Head  ! 

{Choric  Voices): 

In  the  house  of  Macha  of  the 
Ruddy  Head! 

In  that  great  house   where  Macha   the 

queen  has  her  pleas aunce 
There  is  everything  in  the  whole  world 

that  a  man  might  desire. 
God  is  my  witness  that  if  I  say  little  it  is 

far  this, 

57 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

That  I  am  grown  faint  with  wonder^  and 

can  no  more  admire^ 
But  say  this  only,  that  I  live  and  die  in 
the  fire 

Of  thine  eyes,    O   Macha^  my 

desire^ 
With  thine  eyes  of  fire  ! 

{Choric  Voices  in  a  loud  swelling 
chant): 

But  say  this  only,  that  we  live 

and  die  in  the  fire 
Of  thine  eyes,  O  Macha,  Dream, 

Desire, 
With  thine  eyes  of  fire ! 

(Choric  Voices  repeat  their  refrains^ 
but  fainter^  and  becoming  more 
faint.  Last  vanishing  sound 
of  the  harps  and  tympans) 

CONCOBAR. 
Is  Emain  Macha  as  a  dream  that 
is  no  more  ? 


58 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

DUACH. 

Emain  Macha,  the  beautiful  city, 
is  as  a  dream  that  is  no  more. 
A  moan  of  wind, 

CONCOBAR. 

Wind,  wind,  nothing  but  wind ! 

DUACH. 

Clouds  cover  the  moon.  Let  us 
go,  O  king.  To-night,  dreams :  the 
morrow  waits,  when  dreams  will  be 
realities. 

CONCOBAR. 

Dreams,  dreams,  nothing  but 
dreams ! 

(Slowly  CoNCOBAR  and  Duach  pass 
through  the  darkening  gloom. 
The  Dun  becomes  more  and 
more  obscure.  From  the  dark- 
ness to  the  right  a  single  Jlute 
note^  where  Maine  lies) 

59 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 

MAINfi 

(chanting  slowly,  unseen),  Deirdrfe 
is  dead !  Deirdre  the  Beautiful  is 
dead,  is  dead ! 


60 


SCENE  III 


Scene^  the  same,  Ultonian  War- 
riors have  brought  Cravetheen 
THE  Harper  —  a  misshapen 
savage  figure^  held  by  two 
warriors  —  before  the  king,  so 
that  CoNCOBAR  may  decree  what 
ma7iner  of  death  the  man  is  to 
die,  because  of  having  murdered 
CoRMAC  by  setting  fire  to  the 
Dun,  where  he  and  Eilidh  lay, 
and  burning  him  and  his  love, 
and  all  that  were  within  the 
Diin, 


"iW  2tf  Hf  M"  Ttf  Itf  ttf  2tf  US'  ttf  Uf  US^  2tf   ttf  2tf  ttf~  US'  Uf 

CONCOBAR. 

HAVE  heard  all.     Let 

him  go.   What  is  death  ? 

(Cravetheen  2> 

released,) 

CRAVETHEEN. 
Have  you  no  mercy,  O  king  ? 

CONCOBAR. 

Harper,  you  have  your  life.     Go ! 

CRAVETHEEN. 
Have  you  no  mercy,  O  king? 

CONCOBAR. 
What  is  your  desire  ? 

CRAVETHEEN. 
I  have  but  one  desire,  Concobar, 
King  of  Ulla. 

CONCOBAR. 

Speak. 

63 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

CRAVETHEEN. 

It  is  that  I  may  know  death. 

CONCOBAR 

(rising,  and  smiling  strangely). 
Brother,  I  too  —  I  too  have  that 
one  desire. 

CRAVETHEEN  (confusedly). 
You  .  .  .  the  king.  .  .  . 

MAINfi 

lying  under  an  oak,  makes  a  clear 
note  on  his  reed-flute,  and  chants 
slowly,  with  wailing  rise  and  fall: 
Deirdre  is  dead  I  Deirdre  the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  ! 

CRAVETHEEN  (muttering). 

Ah,  now  I  know !  Now  I  know ! 
(moving  slowly  towards  the  king). 
That  cry  is  the  cry  of  the  House  of 
Usna !     The  gods  do  not  sleep,  O 

64 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

king.  That  cry  is  the  cry  of  the 
House  of  Usna! 

CONCOBAR 

with  sudden  fury^  reaching  out  his 
arms  as  though  cursing  or  abhorring 
the  speaker.  Take  him  away !  To 
death !  ...  to  death !  Away  with 
him  ! 

CRAVETHEEN 
(eagerly  and  triumphantly),     I  am 
the  voice  of  the  House  of  Usna,  O 
king! 

CONCOBAR  (furiously). 
Tie  him  to  the  saplings !     Let 
him  die  the  death  of  the  oaks ! 

WARRIORS  (shouting). 

To  the  Death-tree!  To  the 
Death-tree ! 

( They  seize  Cravetheen,  and  drag 
him  away  into  the  wood,) 

65 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

CONCOBAR 

(staring  about  him  confusedly). 
Who  spoke  ?  [Lower,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper)     Who  spoke  ? 

DUACH. 

O  king,  there  is  no  evil  done 
upon  the  world  that  the  wind  does 
not  bring  back  to  the  feet  of  him 
who  wrought  it. 

CONCOBAR. 

The  wind !  .  .  .  The  wind ! 
DUACH. 

O  king,  the  gods  abhor  most  the 
evil  that  is  wrought  unworthily  by 
the  great. 

CONCOBAR. 
Who  are  the  great  ?  .  .  .  I  have 
lost  love,  and  my  kinglihood,  and 
my   son,   and    all,   all    my    hopes. 
Who  are  the  great } 

66 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 
DUACH. 

O  king,  you  have  slain  youth, 
and  love,  and  beauty. 

CONCOBAR 

{wailingly).  Life.  .  .  .  Life.  .  .  . 
Life  for  ever  slays  youth,  and  love, 
and  beauty. 

DUACH. 

Take  not  the  brute  law  to  be  the 
divine  law.  O  king,  are  prophecies 
idle  ways  of  an  idle  wind }  Long, 
long  ago  it  was  foretold  that  evil 
would  come  upon  you  and  your 
house  because  of  your  uncontrolled 
desire,  but  what  avail }  Your  ears 
were  deaf. 

CONCOBAR. 

Why  do  the  gods  pursue  me  ? 
I  am  old,  I  am  old. 

67 


THE    HOUSE  OF    USNA 
^     DUACH. 

At  the  kindling  of  the  light  they 
look  into  the  silent  earth,  and 
they  behold  the  slain  bodies  of 
Naysha  and  Ailne  and  Ardan,  and 
a  shade  stands  at  their  grave  calling 
night  and  day  —  /  am  the  House  of 
Usna  ! 

CONCOBAR. 

Druid,  is  there  no  evil  done  upon 
the  world,  is  there  no  slaying  of 
young  men,  is  there  no  falling 
of  heroic  names  into  the  dust,  save 
what  I  have  done  ? 

DUACH. 

Because  of  your  desire  you  slew 
your  kinglihood. 

CONCOBAR. 

My  kinglihood  ? 
68 


THE    HOUSE  OF    USNA 
DUACH. 

More  terrible  than  the  fate  of 
Usna  is  the  fall  of  royal  honour. 
More  terrible  than  the  death  of 
Naysha  is  the  shame  put  upon 
those  who  blindly  did  your  will. 
More  terrible  than  the  death  of 
Deirdre  is  the  undoing  of  the  great 
wonder  and  mystery  of  beauty. 
The  gods  call.  ..."  Concobar, 
Concobar,  thy  thirst  shall  be  for 
shadows^  and  the  rose  of  thy  desire 
shall  be  dust  within  thy  mouth  !  " 

CONCOBAR  {hopelessly). 

It  was  because  of  love.  ...  It 
was  because  of  love. 

DUACH.  , 

Yes,  O  king  .  .  .  love  of  thine 
own  love. 
Silence, 

69 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 
CONCOBAR. 
Evil  can  be  undone. 

DUACH.  ' 
Where  are  the  sons  of  Usna  ? 

CONCOBAR. 

I   tell  you,   Druid,  evil   can   be 
undone.   I  repent  me  of  my  evil.  .  .  . 
I  repent  me  of  my  evil. 

DUACH. 

Where  are  the  sons  of  Usna.? 
Where  is  the  word  of  the  king.? 
Where  is  Deirdre,  the  too  great 
beauty  of  this  evil  time.?  Where 
is  Emain  Macha,  the  beautiful  city  .? 
Where  is  the  glory  of  the  Red 
Branch.?  Where  is  Cormac,  Cor- 
mac  Conlingas,  who  was  to  be  king? 
Where  stands  Eire  that  was  to  be 
one  nation .? 

70 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

CONCOBAR  (in  a  hoarse 
^  whisper). 

Have  all  these  evils  come  upon 
me  because  I  was  a  king  and 
because  I  loved  ? 

DUACH. 

Because  you  were  a  king  and 
chose  the  unkingly  way. 

CONCOBAR  {wailingly). 
Good  blooms  like  a  flower  that  has 
its  day :  evil  like  a  weed  that  endures, 
and  grows  and  grows  and  grows. 

DUACH. 

But  the  evil  that  is  done  of  kings 
shall  cover  the  whole  land. 

CONCOBAR  {starling,  and 
furiously). 

Enough!  Enough,  Druid!  I 
have  heard  enough.  I  am  the 
king  (raising  his  sword,  and  look- 

71 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

ing  towards  the  Warriors,  shouts), 
Ultonians,  awake !  I  am  the  king. 
I  am  the  Red  Branch.  On  the 
morrow  we  march.  I  shall  lead 
you,  with  Conaill  Carna  and  with 
Cuchulain.  The  armies  of  Queen 
Meave  shall  be  scattered  like  dry 
leaves.  Fear  not  the  gods !  The 
gods  follow  the  victorious  sword  I 
Before  the  new  moon  all  the  gods 
of  the  Gael  will  be  on  our  side ! 
The  Red  Branch  !  The  Red  Branch  I 

WARRIORS 

(clashing  swords  a^id  spears).  The 
Red  Branch  !     The  Red  Branch  ! 

CONCOBAR. 

Up  with  the  Sunburst !    Up  with 
the  banner  of  the  Sunburst ! 

WARRIORS. 

The  Su7iburst !     The  Sunburst ! 


72 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 
CONCOBAR  (triumphantly). 

The  gods  are  with  us  !  {Lower, 
and  turning  to  Duach,  exultantly). 
The  gods  are  with  us.  Druid,  it  is 
the  will  of  man  that  compels  the 
gods,  not  the  gods  who  compel 
man. 

DUACH 

after  a  momentary  pause,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  the  king's  arm.  The 
gods  are  the  will  of  man.  For 
good  and  for  evil  the  gods  are  the 
will  of  man. 

CONCOBAR. 

Stand  back,  Druid.  I  am  weary  of 
your  subtleties.  (Shouts)  Warriors, 
go!  On  the  morrow  I  shall  lead 
you  —  I,  and  Conaill  the  Victorious, 
and  Cuchulain  the  greatest  cham- 
pion of  Eire ! 


THE    HOUSE    OF    USNA 

WARRIORS 

gOy  shouting,  and  after  they  have 
gone  their  voices  are  heard  repeating 
the  acclaim : 

Concobar  I     Concobar !     Conaill 
Carna  !    Cuchulain  !    Cuchulain  I 

CONCOBAR 

{looking sombrely  at  T>VKCii),  Druid, 
go !     I  would  be  alone. 

DUACH. 
I  go.     But  truly,  yea   truly,   O 
king,  you  shall  be  alone  from  this 
hour. 

CONCOBAR  {scornfully). 
Enough.     I  am  the  king.    I  have 
great  dreams.     The  gods  are  with 
me.     They  have  forgotten,  for  they 
do  not  long  remember  the  dead ! 

DUACH 

{meaningly,  as  he  moves  slowly  away), 

74 


THE     HOUSE     OF    USNA 

The    gods    neither   sleep   nor   do 
they  forget.  {A  pause) 

A  long  pause.     Silence. 
CONCOCAR  {alo7ie^  exu Itan tly). 

I   am   the   king.     I    have   great 
dreams. 

A  wailing  voice  from  the  wood. 
The  king  starts^  raising  his  sword. 

CONCOBAR. 
Who  is  that  ?  .  .  .  what  is  that .? 
CRAVETHEEN 
{unseen,  on  the  Death-tree).     It  is  I, 
Cravetheen,  in  my  hour  of  death. 

Silence.     The  king  stands  listen- 
ing.    Again  a  long  wailing  cry. 

CRAVETHEEN. 

The  gods  do  not  sleep,  O  king  I 
.  .  .  Farewell. 
Slowly     CoNCOBAR     lowers     his 
sword.     It  falls   with   a  crash   to 

75 


THE     HOUSE     OF     USNA 

the  ground.  He  stands  as  though 
spell-bound, 

CONCOBAR 

(jin  an  awed  whispering  voice).  It 
is  the  cry  of  the  House  of  Usna  I 

Silence,  Slowly  the  king  lifts  his 
hand  to  his  face,  and  bows  his  head. 

From  the  wood  the  boy  Maine 
breathes  three  poignant  notes  on  his 
reedflute^  and  chants  slowly  with 
long  rise  and  fall  : 

Deirdre  is  dead  I  Deirdre  the 
Beautiful  is  dead,  is  dead  I 


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